Metaplot and Masterplan
by any1
Summary: Hogwarts 19971998: After the last battle, the whole world seems a warzone. Every side is plotting revenge and yes, there are more than two sides. Sequel to Subplot, Unplottable, AU to OotP. Betaread by Thranx and Vanessa. Ch. 5 is up.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

In Hogwarts' staffroom, four figures were sitting and glancing out into a glorious sunset. In spite of the summery warmth, they looked huddled, as if suffering from a cold no one else could feel.

"What in the world are we going to do now?" Professor Flitwick asked, clutching his undersized teacup.

Three sets of eyes turned to Professor McGonagall, the secret headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore's designated successor, their designated leader. Alas, Minerva McGonagall did not respond. She did not say much these days. As hard as it was for all of them to comprehend Dumbledore's death, for her it was obviously the hardest. The witch only stared into nothingness, probably not even seeing the golden glow glorifying her wrinkled face and white hair. It was as if she had turned old overnight.

"How long do you think we will last?" Professor Varlerta asked.

"However long we can fake it," Professor Flitwick replied. The intelligence in his little eyes mingled with fear.

"You've got a point here," Professor Lyons, radiant in the sunset, commented. Then, after a long hesitation untypical for the self-confident wizard, he added quietly:

"I've got a plan."

In the Slytherin mansion, Lord Voldemort counted his losses. His own blazing inferno had been mirrored back onto him and his Death Eaters by some strange magical coup de force for which not even the Dark Lord himself could account. He had been rescued from the flames by the strangest, perhaps the craziest of all his followers – by Evnissyen Dumbledore himself. Then again, many Death Eaters had not. He had lost ten grown followers and, of course, all the boys recruited to Eliminate Hogwarts castle. While this last loss had been precipitated, it came as a shock to the Dark Lord because the sacrifice of so many potential Death Eaters had brought him no victory: Hogwarts still stood, armed with a new weapon he did not understand.

He had to be careful now. He did not want to blow it again this time. Defeat never looked good; he was endangered to lose the trust of his followers – or worse, their fear of him. The death of so many Death Eaters' sons had also created some resentment among his followers. Before he attacked Hogwarts again, he had to achieve two things: He had to come up with some truly impressive victories against the rest of his opponents, and he had to find out more about this secret weapon. Most of all, he needed a good spy.

Yes, there might be a way to finally bring Dumbledore and his evil-forsaken castle to a fall. Hope germinated again. His white, snake-like face broke into something almost resembling a smile.

"I've got a plan," the Dark Lord hissed to himself.

####

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Neville were sharing their worries in the only place they were not endangered of being overheard: They were hiding in Dumbledore's old office. No one was using the room now; it seemed no one dared. Everything was just the way the deceased headmaster had left it – his desk, his shelves and chests full of strange magical devices, as well as the gilded platform bearing Fawkes' ashes. The Phoenix had not risen again. Hermione had looked through many books on animal life, trying to find out whether a span of almost a week was a sure sign that Fawkes was dead, but as she could not be sure, they never touched the ashes, but just regarded them as a symbol of their sadness, a symbol of their loss – and of their fears.

"The most important thing is secrecy," Harry admonished them, not for the first time. "We must keep this quiet and tell nobody. As long as nobody knows he is dead, we are relatively safe."

"Safe, indeed!" Ginny snorted. "As safe as we were on the day they attacked us. They knew Dumbledore was here to protect us, and it did not stop them."

"Dumbledore stopped them," Harry insisted.

"They suffered great losses," Hermione agreed. "They won't attack us just for fun."

"I don't care _why_ they will attack us," Ron snapped. "One thing is certain: If Dumbledore could not protect us without losing his life, nobody can. The teachers can't protect us. We can't rely on them. We've got to fend for ourselves now."

"How?" Neville asked simply. "What do you think we could do to protect ourselves and all the others?" With a wide movement of his hand, he included all the teachers and students in the castle, maybe even all the witches and wizards living in the refugee camp in the castle grounds, League members and other people hiding from the Ministry and from Lord Voldemort.

No one had an answer for Neville. Indeed, what could they do? They knew they were nearing adulthood, nearing the age of becoming Auror trainees, curse breakers or other fearless professionals. Still, what could they do to protect themselves and others against the impending attack of Lord Voldemort?

Ron glanced over to Hermione, only to find a faint, mysterious smile on her lips. Meeting her eyes, he raised an eyebrow. What was there to smile about in these days of terror?

Maybe he was mistaken, but it seemed her lips were forming the words: "I've got a plan."

####

Severus Snape and Evnissyen Dumbledore were labelling potion vials down in their peaceful dungeon. They did not speak; conversation was rare among them these days. Ever since Evnissyen had told Snape of the events in the Hogwarts grounds, they did not find much to say to each other. Snape found himself bothered by a faint, but omnipresent feeling of guilt. For some reason he did not understand, the boys' deaths were his fault. And then there was an even stranger feeling still: He was resenting his partner for saving the Dark Lords from the flames.

Of course, the flames would not have killed the Dark Lord, but they would have greatly inconvenienced him. This would have meant more torture for his followers, probably quite a bit of it reserved for his whipping boy, Snape. He had been cursed for the Dark Lord's amusement twice since the defeat, but in the last few days, the Dark Lord appeared to have tired of his pleas for mercy. Snape could labour in peace again.

Maybe there was an opportunity for him in all the misery around him. Due to the loss of Death Eaters, the Dark Lord needed a new supply of people he could rely on. Although Snape had proven less than trustworthy in the past, to say the least, he was far from incompetent for serving the Dark Lord; this much he knew. He might advance higher in their ranks now if he took care; he might be promoted from whipping boy to regular Death Eater, from Death Eater to a leader among them if he took care. There were still some cards left to play for him.

Suddenly, his eyes met Evnissyen's. All feeling of resentment and mistrust left him. The two Death Eaters smiled at each other.

"I've got a plan," both said almost in unison.

####

Standing in the doorway, Lupin took a long look at Sirius, who was crouching on the unmade bed, the tousled hair falling into his eyes. His friend, no, his _mate_, was looking comatose with boredom. There was little point in making the bed or in combing the hair of prisoners.

Happiness was all very well, but confined to these four walls, to the same bed, the same shower, the same mindless computer games, it was endangered of growing stale. Every day, Lupin took care to keep a little magic alive in their wandless cage, difficult as it seemed. But now he smiled to himself.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Lupin asked Sirius, hoping he'd take the bait.

"Get out?" There was a sudden light in Sirius' eyes; he sat up. "What do you mean?"

"Guess who I talked to on the phone right now. Guess who's coming over?"

Sirius shrugged. "I suppose you'll tell me any minute now." But in spite of his indifferent air, he made room for Lupin, and when the wizard sat down on the bed next to him, he put his arms around him and murmured into his hair:

"Have you got a plan, Moony?"

####

There was a faceless, nameless being crawling out of the earth. The sun on its face was pain, but so was the coolness of water; so was the darkness. Everything was pain to the mindless being. Trying to remember, however, was the worst pain. It had lain in the earth for eons upon eons, it seemed, and now there were no memories left. Only the hatred, only the thirst for blood was left.

It did not remember how it got here, or whom it hated so much. Its only thought was vengeance. It would find its tormentor and kill it. Whoever its tormentor was, it would drink his blood one day. It did not know what steered it, but that was of no concern to the being.

"I will," it breathed.


	2. Harry

**1 – Harry **

It was July 31st, so it had to be his seventeenth birthday, but hardly anybody seemed to take notice. Sure, he got a hug from Hermione and a manly clasp on the shoulder from Ron; also, both said he'd get a present later on, but there wasn't even a cake. He would have thought Mrs Weasley would bake him a cake, but maybe her makeshift home down at the refugee camp didn't have an oven for baking. There wasn't anything from Sirius, of course, as Harry's godfather was still trapped somewhere in New York City; however, it was strange that not even Hagrid had come to see him yet and bring him any kind of present – or rock-hard cake. Harry was miffed – so miffed, in fact, that he abstained from going to Hagrid's cabin of his own accord, or mentioning his birthday to anyone.

After breakfast, Professor Lyons had given Harry a letter from Cho – as direct communication with Harry would endanger Cho, it had been addressed to the teacher. It was a plain letter, not a card, to avoid suspicion. Most of the paper was covered with a fake letter to the teacher, reporting of her progress as an employee at Gringott's bank, and describing an Arithmancy problem to him. In the figures of this Arithmancy problem, Cho had coded a message to Harry. As the two had agreed before the holidays, she had used two separate number codes for letters, one for reading backwards, one for reading forwards; words written backwards and forwards interlocked, a code impossible to crack in her opinion. Therefore, decoding the short, faked 'problem' was a difficult task, which took Harry most of the morning. When at last her message was legible, its brevity and predictability was somewhat of a disappointment to Harry, in spite of the words of love it contained:

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy birthday! I hope you have a chance to party a bit with your friends today – I wish I was there with you. I am thinking of you all the time. Working at Gringott's is alright – there are a lot of interesting things to learn, and everyone here is nice (except for the goblins), but I miss Hogwarts, my class mates, and especially you. I love you and I hope we will see each other again soon. Love, Cho_

Harry knew how important it was for her to remain inconspicuous; the last thing he wanted was for Voldemort to kidnap Cho as a means of harming Harry. Their ongoing relationship had to remain a secret. However, he couldn't help wishing for a more ardent letter, or even better, the presence of Cho on his birthday, if not always.

He re-folded the piece of parchment and put it into its envelope, wondering how to spend the rest of his birthday. It wasn't quite time for lunch yet. There had to be _something_ pleasant he could do. Although many students were staying at Hogwarts for the holiday, hoping they were safer within its walls than outside, the Gryffindor common room was almost empty of his classmates. He wondered where Ron and Hermione were; they had disappeared after breakfast. Outside, an unpleasant, steady drizzle was falling, hardly the weather for a nice walk outside. Wherever they were, they were not by his side, trying to make his birthday a pleasant one, he decided.

Just as he had – somewhat listlessly – decided to read a book on Countering curses Hermione had recommended to him, a small figure approached him: Dobby, the house-elf. Harry smiled at him, expecting socks for a present. However, the house-elf only bowed low and whispered:

"Please, Harry Potter, I is sorry to disturb you, but I is asked to bring you to Professor McGonagall on great urgency." Again, he bowed low.

Harry frowned. He had never been summoned to a teacher in this fashion. Although Professor McGonagall only disturbed the students' common room if there was acute need for it, she could have come for him herself. However, remembering the teacher's recent frailty, he put down the unread book and followed the house-elf out into the corridor and into Professor McGonagall's office. He found her seated at her desk, visibly thinner than a few weeks ago, looking up from a faded piece of parchment and peering at him through her spectacles. Next to her desk, Professor Flitwick, Professor Lyons and Professor Varlerta had drawn up chairs.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Professor McGonagall said gravely after he had closed the door behind him. The other three teachers repeated the words in tones hardly warmer than hers. This was nothing like a celebration, Harry knew at once. These were the four teachers who knew about Dumbledore's death, and they looked like they had something very serious on their minds.

"Thank you," he replied, noticing how his own voice lacked resonance and conviction. As Professor McGonagall motioned for him to sit, he took the chair standing opposite of her and waited for her to speak.

"Harry, we have asked you to come here because we have to tell you something of great importance," the teacher said.

Harry nodded. He had expected no less.

"It may come as a bit of a shock to you," she continued. "Professor Dumbledore meant to keep these matters from you until you are older, but we have come to the conclusion that the time for you to know about this has come, or at any rate, that we cannot delay it any longer." Unhappily, Professor McGonagall glanced to her right at Lyons and Varlerta. Somehow, she looked as if she did not wholeheartedly agree with this conclusion. She sighed and continued:

"Just after you were born, Professor Trelawney made a prophecy during her final exam at Divination College. This prophecy concerned you."

Harry felt his heart beat faster, but Professor McGonagall paused again. She cast another questioning glance at Lyons as if she was hoping he would stop her, but he only gestured for her to proceed.

"Professor Trelawney prophesied that only you could overcome Lord Voldemort," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "She said you were the only one who could stop him, and if you failed, the world would fall prey to his cruel dominion for seven generations."

For a few moments, the room was absolutely quiet. Her words were ringing in his ear; he was trying to grasp what she had just told him.

"Did she say _how_ I was supposed to stop him?" he asked at last.

Professor Lyons and Professor Varlerta mutely shook their heads; Professor Flitwick followed suit.

"She did not, I'm afraid," Professor McGonagall replied. She cast her eyes onto the desk's surface and said no more.

"You must understand, Harry," Flitwick addressed him in a hurried tone, "everybody used to think that you already _had_ stopped him, as a little baby – everybody except Dumbledore, that is. When the story became known – well, of course it wasn't supposed to be known, because prophecies concerning the welfare of individuals, especially when they are defenceless children, are protected by law. However, it was a public exam, so word got around. This sent your parents into hiding, because, of course, they feared that You-Know-Who meant to kill you before you could become a danger to him." He sighed. "We all know what happened then. When You-Know-Who disappeared, people said you had fulfilled the prophecy, and so did many books about contemporary magical history state." He raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"I've never read anything about myself in any kind of book," Harry said, his mouth very dry all of a sudden.

"You never looked?" Varlerta asked, sounding slightly surprised.

Harry shrugged. He had always felt a slight embarrassment about being famous for something he did not even remember doing. Reading his own praise in print somehow seemed like the one thing he could not let anyone else see him do, so he had never looked himself up in any kind of reference book.

Something else was bothering him. His parents, Flitwick was implying, had only gone into hiding because of him. It was the prophecy about him which had caused Voldemort to come after them. His parents had not only died _for_ him; they had died _because_ of him. Somehow, it was not the same thing, and Harry did not like the thought at all. In fact, it made him feel slightly sick.

"At any rate, my dear boy, the prophecy was not given much more thought after You-Know-Who's fall," Flitwick continued. "Only Dumbledore believed that your true fight against him was still to come. We have discussed this matter among ourselves for a long time, and now we all believe it likely that Dumbledore was right. It is your fate and your duty to fight a final battle against You-Know-Who."

"We want to train you for that fight," Professor Lyons continued. "What we are proposing is that you should spend your last year at school improving your skills at hexing, cursing and Countering. The best experts of each method of attack and self-defence shall arm you for that fight."

"Also, we mean to protect you as well as we can," said Professor Varlerta. "For example, my music mages and me, we will play to Shield and to Strengthen you. Please understand that we are asking you to fight this battle for us, because for reason unknown to all of us, you may be the only one who _can_ fight it. This means we are asking you to put your life into extreme danger for the common good. However, we do not mean to let you fight this battle alone, unaided or unprotected. Everyone will fight at your side – if you are willing to be the one attacking Lord Voldemort."

Harry couldn't help thinking that the teachers all sounded a little stilted. Had they practised their parts prior to his arrival? Did they really believe well-chosen words were needed to convince him?

"I will fight Lord Voldemort as well as I can, no matter what the risk may be," he said firmly. "He killed my parents, and he killed Professor Dumbledore. I mean to take revenge. If you want to better my chances by teaching me new ways to fight him, that's fine with me."

"We all have reasons to wish for revenge," Professor Flitwick piped with a sidelong glance at Professor McGonagall. "Also, he is threatening to destroy all of our world, so we all have a reason to risk our lives in the fight. But because of the prophecy, your case is special. We believe that you will have to _face_ him."

"I faced him before," Harry reminded him, thinking of that long-ago evening after the Triwizard Tournament, and he suppressed a shudder. "I will face him again. Just tell me when my training starts."

"We were hoping you'd say that," Professor Flitwick said with a smile. "There is, however, one more thing. We must think of the fight ahead of us, but also of the future – of your future, to be precise. We believe you should drop all the classes that do not benefit your skills in defence and attack so you can wholly concentrate on your training this year. As for the ones we recommend you to keep for the moment, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, you may soon advance so far beyond your classmates that you will prefer training alone. This will mean you cannot finish school the way you mean to. When, as we all hope, you overcome You-Know-Who, you should not be without a further qualification, however. As teachers of this school, we would hate to ruin your chance at passing your NEWTs. Therefore, we are trying to convert your training into school class equivalents whenever possible. Of course, that will not be the same as taking the classes you choose. Rather than leaving you without a degree, we will try to give you an Auror college preparatory degree. It is rather limiting, I admit, but – could you imagine training for an Auror afterwards?"

Harry felt his head swim. He had never really thought about what he would like to do after school; recently, he had worried much more about finishing school alive. Did he really have to decide these things here and on the spot? Being an Auror sounded exciting somehow, but he was not wild on losing his eye or leg like Mad-Eye Moody. Then again, if he fought Lord Voldemort, he was likely to lose much more than that.

"You don't have to decide anything today," Varlerta said gently. "And don't mind us trying to run your life for you – the truth is that we all feel quite bad about sending an underage boy into battle for us without even giving him any kind of NEWTs. However, once we get the bigger problem sorted out –" her smirk suggested she did not really think this as easy as she made it sound, "we'll work out your career for you, too."

"I do know that I want to train for fighting Lord Voldemort," Harry replied firmly, putting all other matters aside. "When do I start?"

"During the next few weeks, Ambrose Curtis is going to refine your combat magic skills," Professor Lyons replied. His tone confirmed Harry's suspicion that nobody had doubted he would go along with their plan. "You are meeting him out in the grounds tomorrow at ten. Once school starts again, all your other classes are on hold."

"That does not mean you won't be seeing a lot of Professor Varlerta and me soon," Flitwick piped in. "Your training will include learning and practising a wide variety of spells and hexes from me. Also, I believe Professor Varlerta will teach you a variety of her music magic."

"Most importantly, you will train with Neville and Ginny, as we will ask them to defend you during your encounter with Lord Voldemort," Varlerta explained. "As you know, my job is mainly to teach the different varieties of defence, while in you, we plan to mainly build up skills of attack. We will leave your defence to the experts, so I will teach you only some basics to use in case these experts fail."

Harry nodded. It seemed much planning had gone into their strategy; now all he had to do was carry it out.

"I believe you know what's best in this case," he told them. "I will do what you tell me."

Deeply lost in thought, he went back to Gryffindor Tower, only to still find it empty of everyone he knew well. He went to have lunch by himself, thinking about his conversation with the teachers. So they wanted him to fight Lord Voldemort. So there was a prophecy telling him to risk his neck for everybody else's. A part of him felt elated about his own importance; a part of him felt mostly fear, and yet a third part nagged that this prophecy was quite a convenient thing for everybody else. Quietly, he devoured his meal without really tasting what he was eating.

After lunch, he went to visit Hagrid after all, only to find his hut empty. Frustrated, he considered visiting Mrs. Weasley in the refugee camp: There had to be _someone_ who was interested in his birthday. However, visiting people for this precise reason was a bit pathetic, he decided; instead, he went for a walk in the rainy grounds to find the Thestral. The black winged stallion still roamed the grounds freely and only came to Harry occasionally, being his own master and invisible at will. Since the fire that had transformed a large part of the grounds into a burned, sooty desert, Harry had only seen the creature once – enough to know it had survived the battle. Now he longed for a ride on the Thestral's back, something to lift his spirits in spite of the depressing weather. He looked for him in the friendly, green parts of the ground and even went into the blackened parts until the sickening memories he had of that place made him turn around and flee, his stomach churning.

Harry called for the Thestral repeatedly, but it did not come. Maybe it had left the grounds to roam the wide world; maybe it had left him altogether, showing no more interest in him than the rest of his friends, he thought bitterly. Moist and dispirited, he went back inside. He would read the book on Countering curses, after all.

Immersed in misery, not quite knowing what to make of the situation, he hardly saw where he was going. On the landing before the Fat Lady, he literally bumped into Ginny.

"Harry, I've been looking for you everywhere," she told him, rubbing her head. "It's – it's about Ron and Hermione. They are having a terrible row. Maybe you could come and help them make it up?"

Harry sighed. Why was it always his job to save the world, and what's more, on his birthday? The least Ginny could have done is remember it was his birthday, he thought. Nevertheless, he turned towards the portrait.

"Not this way – they are in an unused class room in the third storey, screaming at each other at the top of their voices," Ginny said, pointing over to the west wing of the castle.

Harry shrugged. Whatever. When Ginny went downstairs, he followed.

Wordlessly, the two of them walked down the corridors. Harry was wondering what Ron and Hermione were fighting about. They had not had a proper row in quite a while, he mused, but nevertheless they were infamous throughout Gryffindor Tower for loud arguments. Seamus Finnegan had once called them 'an old married couple who's never quite been a couple.' Harry had little experience with old married couples, but he knew most Gryffindors had been expecting Ron and Hermione to become girlfriend and boyfriend a long time ago. He wasn't so sure himself. He never knew what to make of them.

Ginny led him downstairs, around a few corners, along a couple of hallways and upstairs again. Harry didn't pay much attention. Finally, she indicated the closed door of a disused classroom.

"I don't hear them," Harry remarked, trying the door handle. For a moment, the silence of his supposedly rowing friends spooked them. He opened the door a bit and peered through. All of a sudden, a big tumult broke loose.

"Happy Birthday, Harry!" The classroom was full of people – Ron, Hermione, Neville, Rhonda – yes, there were most of the future sixth and all the future seventh year Gryffindors and many Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs of the same age. Hagrid towered above everybody else, and if he wasn't mistaken, Mrs Weasley was there, too.

Ron took Harry's arm by the wrist and pulled him inside. A bulk of students approached to hug him or shake his hand. Only vaguely, Harry noticed that they were inside Ginny's and Neville's band room, that somebody had pushed the instruments to the side to make room for a large buffet, and that a stereo was bleating rock music in the background.

"You should see your face," Hermione said, grinning. "You look aghast."

"Bet you've never had a surprise party before," Ernie McMillan remarked. Terry Boot laughed in a good-natured way.

Harry shook his head. "No, never," he confirmed. He knew he should be pleased, even overjoyed. There were decorations on the walls, he noticed – mostly Muggle and wizard band posters, Ron's Chudley Cannons posters, as well as a number of little red and yellow Quidditch players drawn by Dean Thomas. The buffet, courtesy of the house-elves, most likely, looked as fine as any they had ever had for a Quidditch party. Beneath the table, there was a large crate holding shiny bottles of butterbeer. The presence of Julian Hengert, the guitar player and Ravenclaw Quidditch player, as well as the little Slytherin girl playing keyboard in Neville's and Ginny's band, suggested that there might even be live music coming up.

"Thank you all – this is fantastic," he said loudly, grinning broadly, but he felt more confusion than pleasure. He had thought they had all forgotten him, and had gotten used to his bit of resentment over the course of the day. Now it was hard to suddenly get rid of his negative feelings, and to retrieve the good spirits the situation required.

To show him he had not been forgotten, Hagrid came over to give Harry a spine-breaking hug, and to wish him a happy birthday; his gift was a special currycomb for the Thestral which, Hagrid said, helped the winged stallion's fur become invisible more easily – something Harry was not sure he really wanted. Nevertheless, of course, he thanked Hagrid. Mrs. Weasley had baked him a cake; it was red and had golden Gryffindor lions on it. Behind her, Dobby suddenly appeared; it seemed he had been hiding behind the half-giant. He gave Harry another pair of his hand-knitted socks, one red, one golden. Both had the image of the Thestral on it, Dobby insisted, and Harry thanked the house-elf enthusiastically, even though he could not see any Thestral. Then he finished greeting everybody and thanked them for contributing to his wonderful party.

"Speaking of wonderful," Ron stepped forward. "This is from all of us." Unceremoniously he took a large parchment envelope out of his robes' pocked and pressed it into Harry's hand.

"May it serve you well in the battles that lay ahead of us," said Seamus Finnegan pompously.

Battles? Harry couldn't help wondering what they knew. Of course, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville knew as much as he did; they had seen Dumbledore die, too. Just like him, they were strictly forbidden to mention it to anyone, let alone discuss it as party banter. On the other hand, all students of Hogwarts knew about the battle that had destroyed a large part of the Hogwarts ground; rumours of the dead enemies had spread around school. Nobody, however, knew about the things Professor McGonagall and the other three teachers had just told Harry – or did they?

Harry opened the envelope to see what kind of battles they meant – and found a coupon for a complete broomstick re-binding, paid in full. Battles, right. The Quidditch field appeared to be all his class-mates were thinking about.

"As great as your Firebolt is, we felt it could use the hand of a professional," Rhonda explained. "We asked about twigs sticking out, and the lady in the shop said after three years of heavy duty, even a Firebolt could do with some servicing."

"Wow, what a fantastic idea," said Harry, who was thinking to himself that in spite of a few odd twigs sticking out, he would have postponed sending in the Firebolt to be re-bound for another year – it was expensive, and he did not think it absolutely necessary yet. However, he knew they meant well.

"We figured the holidays were the right time for re-binding, because you will have it back when school starts again," Ginny said. "We just wanted to make sure you will hold the Quidditch cup in your hand in your last year at Hogwarts."

"What a devious plan – if I'd known about it, I'd never agreed to paying my share for this," Julian Hengert, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Keeper, said, but he was winking and hugged Ginny around the shoulder in a not-too-brotherly way.

"Thank you all – this is fantastic," Harry said, beaming, thinking that he was not being overly original in his words of thanks today. And as everybody appeared to have paid a share for the re-binding, he shook all of his guests' hands, feeling a bit awkward.

Having dispatched their gifts and attended the onset of the party, Mrs. Weasley, Hagrid and Dobby now took their leave, saying they would let Harry celebrate with his other guests now. The students were finally among themselves; the party could begin. The stereo was turned up; the lights were turned down. If Harry had felt like partying, he would have been very pleased, he thought to himself. While he was still trying to get himself into the proper mood, he felt a finger tap his shoulder. Turning, he encountered Ginny once more. The girl leaned towards him; while her short-cropped hair brushed his cheek, she whispered in his ear:

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, as you've probably done the whole day. We haven't forgotten your birthday, none of us, even though it may have seemed like it. Now it's party time."

Moving away from his ear, she said aloud: "Happy birthday, Harry, old man, and all the best for coming of age. I hope your rheumatism permits you to still partake in dancing and the like."

Harry managed to laugh. Jokes about being old were to be expected if you came of age, for sure, and he knew she did not mean to hurt or annoy him. However, her whispered remark had hit the nail on the head, and he did not like it: He _had_ been feeling sorry for himself, had felt singled out, a bit of a stranger among his friends. The conversation with the four teachers had not made things exactly better. His friends could party all they liked and forget about all their trouble – but he could not forget he would have to face Voldemort in the end. It did not please him that Ginny was making fun of his brooding. He was not brooding for nothing. The world was a fearsome place these days.

However, there was no time for brooding now; at his surprise party, he was the centre of attention. Ron and Hermione led Harry to the buffet, where he tried all the house-elves' treasures – the cold meats and the salads, the treacle tarts and the pies, and even the crisps some Muggle-born had contributed to the little feast. Everyone had bottled Butterbeer, and some people danced to the music on the stereo. As the room was not overly large and the band's instruments were crammed to one side, the dancers kept bumping into the spectators, which contributed to the feeling of the event being a proper party.

After an hour or two, Ginny announced that the band would play for Harry now. Rhonda, Julian, the little Slytherin keyboard player and Ginny readied their instruments; Neville, who had been rather quiet the whole evening, assembled his flute and took his place behind the microphone. After a bit of fiddling with amplifiers and guitar tuners, the band was ready for take-off. The party-guests cheered and clapped. Harry, who did not care for rock music overly much, cheered along. After all, they were going to a lot of pains for his birthday.

The band played half a dozen songs; Ron insisted they had improved considerately. Harry, who hadn't noticed, agreed amiably. All the while, Harry's birthday guests were dancing; when the band played a song called 'Creep', a song obviously known to everyone but Harry, serious kissing commenced among the sixth and seventh year couples. Suddenly, Harry was missing Cho very much. It might have been easier to appreciate his surprise party if she had been with him, ready to kiss him in public and to happily take a place on Harry's side in the centre of attention. As it was, Harry had to admit that the party was very pleasant and that everyone had sufficiently shown how much they cared for him on his birthday – but his heart wasn't in it.

After the gig, Ginny actually managed to get Harry on the dance floor for a while, and later Hermione took over. Even Parvati and Rhonda asked him for a dance. Harry wasn't keen on dancing, and he knew he wasn't particularly good at it, but he knew they did not want him to feel too lonely without Cho. For a while, he actually forgot he wasn't enjoying himself and let them drown him in the flood of music and moving bodies.

The party wore on well past midnight. At some point, Harry found himself waking up on a dilapidated armchair half hidden behind the drum set; he must have fallen asleep, he realised. Someone was tousling his hair; turning drowsily, he realised it was Ginny, sharing a quiet giggle with Hermione.

"Not quite a party animal, our hero," Ginny said.

"It's not his style – he's more used to battling dragons or evil overlords," Hermione replied, pretending he hadn't woken up.

"It's a great party," Harry protested mechanically. "I _am_ enjoying myself."

More giggling ensued, making Harry feel quite silly. "We know you are," Hermione said smugly. "Everyone is, as a matter of fact."

Harry looked around. A few die-hard dancers remained, among them Ron, Dean and Thomas; other students were sitting together in twos and threes, talking over the music or eliminating the leftovers of the buffet. In a corner, Julian and Rhonda were wrapped up in conversation, their noses almost touching. Apparently, nobody else had fallen asleep.

Harry sat up, trying to think of a harmless topic for conversation to preserve what was left of his dignity. He considered talking about the classes they would take in the next year – as Ginny had completed her OWLs, now all of them were of an age where they would have to choose between different classes and perhaps drop some. Then he remembered that he would not even take any classes the next year, and a funny feeling befell him. Could he tell them? None of the four teachers had asked him to keep the conversation secret. Of course, people were bound to notice if he did not go to classes anymore.

"I had a funny conversation with some teachers today," he told them, rubbing his tired face, "Professor McGonagall, Flitwick, Lyons and Varlerta."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, and Ginny gave her a meaningful look. The two of them obviously realised instantly that these were the teachers who knew that Dumbledore was dead, and that a 'funny conversation' with them might relate to this matter.

"What did they say to you?" Hermione asked.

"They said I should drop my classes and train for fighting Voldemort," Harry told them were quietly. "I suppose not everybody is supposed to know this, but there is no point not telling you two." He omitted mentioning the prophecy. Thinking about it made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

"So because you made him disappear once, they think you can do it again?" Ginny asked. Harry nodded; this was an explanation that made sense, and he went along with it.

"What about your NEWTs, though?" Hermione asked. It was _so_ like her to think of these matters first. "You can hardly leave school without finishing your classes."

"They say they will give me qualifications to train as an Auror if I win, or something of that kind – _if_ I survive. I'm not sure there is even much point in worrying about my degree," Harry replied. He did not want to sound too whiney, but neither did he take his success, or even survival, anything like for granted.

Ginny patted his arm. "Poor Harry, that's awful," she said, sounding quite serious. "How can they send you into such a fight? I should think that they could take the risk themselves just as well."

Harry suddenly remembered something. "Varlerta said you and Neville would try to protect me with music magic, and we should all train together one of these days."

Ginny gave him a warm smile. "We will, you can count on that. I think we are really getting better with shielding people, and we will do all we can for you."

"There's no point in you fighting Voldemort on your own," Hermione agreed. "We all know you have special powers, so you may be the best man for it, but we will certainly all help you the best we can. Together, we may have a chance, I believe."

Special powers? That was the first Harry had heard of it. True, he had fought Voldemort before, more than once, and he had Countered the Icy Fingers curse more than a year ago, but that hardly counted as having special powers, did it? Nevertheless, he could not help feeling pleased that Hermione had called him the best 'man' for the job.

"Together we may have a chance," he repeated. "Remember our first year, when you, Ron and me went down to get the Philosopher's Stone, Hermione? We all fought together then, and we succeeded. And remember two years ago, when so many people worked together against the Icy Fingers curse until it could be Countered?" He smiled at the two of them, glad that he could be sure of their help, and of many others who would fight at his side.

Then his smile faded. He suddenly remembered facing Quirrell, facing the basilisk, facing Voldemort and the Death Eaters at the end of his fourth year. The memories sent a shiver through him. He realised that in the end, often all help had failed him, and he had been the one forced to face the enemy. Would it be the same this time, would he have to meet Voldemort for a final fight – alone?


	3. Ginny

**2 – Ginny**

Ginny had known this conversation would come. Every time Varlerta wanted them to do something, she had them sit down and have a serious talk. Probably, Ginny reasoned, she did not want to be a commander who forced minors into dangerous missions, but rather a coach informing them of the danger and asked for their cooperation. This time, she would ask, too.

Ginny was not disappointed: Two days after the party, Varlerta asked Neville and her to come to her building. Professor Lyons was sitting on the grass, extinguishing and hiding a cigarette butt when he saw them coming. Probably he did not want to give a bad example.

"I've asked you to come here because I'd like to talk with you about a new project we should undertake," Varlerta said when everyone had settled down.

"As you all know –" she took a look around and lowered her voice, even though nobody else was near enough to overhear her, "as you know, since Dumbledore's death we have to reconsider our options of surviving a fight against Voldemort. Decisions have to be made even if we find them painful. We can hope to be left in peace for a while because Voldemort and his Death Eaters probably have to recover from the last battle, too. After that, however, he is likely to attack again. We have to be ready for that. And as our defences are weakened, we have to look for means of a counter-attack. We must get ready to face him, and to deal him a final blow if possible."

She gave Ginny and Neville a long look. "What I'm telling you now is highly confidential. Just as Dumbledore's death, this is something nobody but those who absolutely have to know should hear about – not even our best friends or lovers." Again, she looked at Ginny, obviously thinking of Joolz. Ginny nodded assent, wanting the teacher to continue.

"For various reasons, we believe it is Harry Potter's fate to fight Voldemort, and to succeed where others failed – to fight him in person, I should say. This is, of course, an extremely dangerous task. Therefore, I believe we should protect Harry as well as possible. We should Shield and guard him so Harry can concentrate on attack. When Harry faces Voldemort, I believe we should be at his side."

Ginny had known what the teacher would ask them – but she had not realised what consequences this would have. Be at Harry's side? That would mean being right there in the first line of attack with him – that would mean they'd have to face Voldemort themselves.

The feeling was like a cold hand grabbing her heart. A face appeared in front of her eyes, young and handsome, speaking commands. She had obeyed these commands once, had killed roosters and had opened doors against better knowledge. No, she must not think of that. That was long forgotten and had nothing to do with the present task.

"Once more, I find myself in the position of asking highly dangerous things of you," Varlerta continued. "However, if we prepare ourselves well, it will not be a desperate suicide mission. Between the four of us, we know a lot about defence magic and have gotten a lot of practise over time. If we find ways to access stone circle power before a fight, we will have even better chances. Most importantly, we will learn to work as a team and protect each other. Our job is to shield ourselves as well as Harry – if we did not do that, we would not be able to help him for more than a few minutes. We will have to depend on each other even more than before, and we will work with Harry so he will learn to depend on us – _if_ you're willing, that is."

"I'm willing to do my share, no matter what the risk is," Ginny heard Neville say. "So far, you've never lead us into unnecessary danger, so I trust your leadership.

Pushing her fear aside, Ginny added: "So do I." She would not let her own courage be bettered by Neville's.

Varlerta smiled warmly. "I'm honoured by your trust, and I will do my best to deserve it," she replied.

"What about our band mates?" Ginny asked. She knew she had asked before, but then the danger of being attacked with the _Eliminatus_ curse had been immediate. Now they had a bit of time to prepare if Varlerta wasn't mistaken.

Varlerta audibly suppressed a sigh. "Well, I'm not sure," she replied, shooting a furtive glance at Roary. "Kay is too young, I said, and she plays an electronic keyboard – well, the electricity isn't the problem, to be honest. Please don't tell her I said this, but I believe there is not enough magic in her music, at least not yet. The same goes for Rhonda. Don't get me wrong, they do fine in your band – but the certain spark of magic somehow is missing in their music. At least I perceive it that way. I would not want to spend time on training them in this moment of danger, partly for their own safety." She looked at Roary, who nodded. Obviously, the teacher needed reassurance in these matters.

"What about Joolz, though?" For some reason, Ginny really wanted Joolz in the group – especially if Rhonda wasn't. She liked her bass player friend a lot, but somehow she was never quite sure that Joolz was hers and would not go back to Rhonda one day. Rhonda was pretty, she played Quidditch, she was popular and from a more respected family than Ginny – especially now that the Weasleys were refugees. Joolz seemed to be Ginny's boyfriend these days, but she knew he was a flirt. Music magic would tie him to her. Once he'd felt that special bond that the interweaving of magical strands created, he would see nobody but Ginny. Also, if she really had to face Voldemort, she wanted him by her side.

"Well …" Varlerta was visibly undecided. Again, she looked at Roary for confirmation.

"Why don't you want to?" he asked her, interpreting her drawn-up shoulders and worried expression.

"You see, I don't really know," the teacher answered. "Maybe I'm just being silly. I know Julian is a good musician, and I can picture him quite well doing music magic. He is good at Coaxing in my class, which also is a good sign. It's just that I'm not entirely comfortable with admitting somebody new into our team."

"You admitted me, too," Roary said.

"You were familiar with my methods," Varlerta replied. She chewed her bottom lip for a moment before continuing: "Of course, neither is Julian. I've taught him for two years, and I am sure he could do well at these things." She looked at Ginny and Neville. "I believe it should be a joint decision, because it concerns all of us. I'd like to hear your opinions."

"I'm in favour of accepting Joolz," Ginny said all too quickly, even for her own taste. She suddenly felt silly. Would the others see her as a silly girl who only wanted to keep her boyfriend close by?

"I don't want to cast my vote either way," Roary said. "I'm new to the group and I know Julian far less than everybody else here. I'm happy with whatever you will decide."

Ginny cast a sidelong glance at Neville. Now it was up to him. Somehow, she had the sure feeling that if he was against admitting Joolz, Varlerta would not do it. And of course, Neville would vote against it. After all, he was jealous of Joolz, wasn't he? She held her breath while Neville took his sweet time deciding.

"I don't have a problem with admitting Joolz," he said at last. "If you believe he is up to it, Professor Varlerta, we should probably admit him. The more we are, the stronger we are, aren't we?"

"Not if we disagree on things as crucial as who belongs to our group," she retorted. "Forgive me the pun, but I believe all members should be in harmony."

"Why should we disagree?" Neville asked, but there was a blank in his eyes, as if something inside of him had been switched off. "No problem," he repeated.

Professor Varlerta waited for a few seconds, as if expecting anyone to contradict, but when nobody did, she said: "It is decided, then. I will ask Julian if he is willing to join."

Ginny knew she ought to be thankful, but something inexplicable had just turned her victory sour. Nevertheless, she nodded. She would talk to Joolz first, though.

Joolz was presiding over a Ravenclaw Quidditch meeting this afternoon, so Ginny had to wait until after supper to talk to him privately. Over the meal, she chatted with Hermione and Ron over things of minor importance. Neville, who was sitting next to them, was not meeting her eyes. Seeing him somehow made her stomach clench, but she told herself he would get over things.

Finally, everybody had finished eating. As soon as the house-elves had cleared the plates, Ginny went over to Joolz to take him on a walk through the grounds. Of course, it was dangerous to go outside; then again, everything was dangerous these days. Even under the protection of a teacher, they would not be safe. But on such a lovely summer evening, staying inside was out of question. The air was balmy and heavily scented with mown grass. Birds were chirping in the trees; the softest breeze stirred the warm air. Walking hand in hand with Joolz, however, was the sweetest of summer pleasures.

Ginny let Joolz tell her all the details of his Quidditch meeting first. It was important to him, so she was interested in it, too. Of course, her own news mattered far more, but he would listen to her all the better for having cleared his own mind, first.

Finally, after he had finished relating all the details of finding new players to her, she said: "Joolz, there is something I'd like to ask you."

"Go ahead, then," the handsome, dreadlocked Ravenclaw boy retorted.

"I believe you should join our music magic group – you know, the group of Professor Varlerta, Professor Lyons, Neville and me. Varlerta said she believed you are qualified for it. And in the fight against the enemy, we need all the support we could get."

She had expected him to be overjoyed. Being in the group was important to her – it made her feel powerful, made her feel she was no pawn in the confrontation, but an active player. Her own mastery of magic had improved considerably since she had learned to weave the strands of reality with the rhythm of her drum. She valued the things she had learned as well as the feeling of belonging to a select and exclusive, but nevertheless very supportive group. Also, in the group she was learning things about music she could have learned nowhere else: Rhythm and magic had become one to her and were among the things dearest to her heart. All these were the things she meant to share with the man she loved.

Joolz, however, looked sceptical. "How much time do we have to spend with this group every day?"

"We are meeting one hour for regular practice every morning," Ginny told him. "Professor Varlerta gets us out of our classes for that and makes the necessary arrangements with the other teachers if our schedules clash. You would probably have to drop two classes for that. Also, we sometimes meet in the afternoon, and sometimes we meet at night to gather stone circle energy. – Oh, you'll love the stone circles!"

"I'm not sure," Joolz replied to her disappointment. "I'm Quidditch captain now that Cho's gone, and then there's the band. I can't drop Quidditch, and I'd hate to drop the band. You wouldn't want me to, either, would you?"

"Of course not," Ginny retorted slightly indignant. However much she loved her music magic group, she loved her band more. While unique magical powers were something that made her feel good about herself, playing _real_ music, music that only existed for its own sake, made her happy.

"Then when do you expect me to find time for your other group?" he asked.

"Well, some of it takes place during school hours, so that doesn't cut into either Quidditch or band time," she replied. "You will have to practise a bit for the group, especially at first, I expect, but then again you have to do homework for your other classes, too, and you also have to study for tests, so the amount of time you will have to spend for either the group or classes does not differ much. Also, you will get an extra credit for the group – I got a separate OWL just for this. And of course, if your powers improve, so will your Defence Against the Dark Arts marks." She could not believe it. Here she was, praising her group like a merchant eager to sell, when really he should have been the one to show eagerness.

"It's not like you _have_ to join," she told him a bit miffed.

"I'll think about it," he replied. "Please don't take it personally. It's just that there are so many things on my schedule right now."

She bit back a remark about fighting Voldemort being more important than Quidditch. However much this was true, she knew she would not have liked to give up her band if someone had demanded it of her, even if it gave her more power to fight Voldemort.

"Well, think about it," she told him curtly. "Professor Varlerta will ask you officially if you want to join. Please be aware that you're the only one in the whole school who qualified for this – except us, of course."

He cut her words short by kissing her. "I'll think about it," he promised her again. "I won't turn it down lightly." It was all the promise she could get at the moment, she supposed.

She did not ask Joolz about the matter again, because she did not want to seem too pushy. Patiently, she waited until Professor Varlerta announced that she had talked to him, and that he had agreed to join the group. He would receive some special training with her before training with the others, however; Varlerta did not want to waste Ginny's and Neville's time training with a novice.

Ginny was quite content to hear this, although she wished Joolz had told her himself instead of letting her hear it from the teacher. What had Varlerta said to him that had convinced him more than Ginny's words? Maybe she'd ask him – but not yet, she decided. She did not want to seem too interested in all of this. After all, she was superior to her popular, good-looking boyfriend for once – she was the expert, he was the novice. Even though Joolz was such a great guitar player, he did not have her experience with music magic. Of course, she'd also train with him in private – _if_ he asked her. As for now, she would concentrate on her own training.

"So are we doing anything new this year?" she asked.

"We are doing shields," the teacher responded. "Not the stuff you learned two years ago, though – we will be creating solid, impregnable means of protection, and the energy we use will come from the earth itself. We will have to learn how to do shields in the traditional way first. You have all learned how to do a simple protective field in my class during your fifth year, and you know a good deal about Shielding with music. We will combine our different skills and methods of Shielding to create something even Voldemort can't break – or at least we hope we will."

"The power of the earth?" Neville asked. "What do you mean with that?"

"You'll see next week, when Ambrose Curtis comes back to the castle," the teacher replied. "Most of my preparations are done, and I've got our training plan all laid out. Tomorrow, we'll start a practical revision of protective fields. I hope you don't mind me making you work through the holidays. I hope we all had enough time to recover from the last fight, but now we have to think of the future. After all, it's our lives that we are going to protect."

Ginny and Neville both shook their heads. It wasn't that they didn't value their holidays highly. However, now that they could not go home due to safety considerations, they might as well work and improve their chances in the final battle. It was better than sitting around and worrying about the future, at any rate.

Conjuring up a simple protective field with the help of a wand was relatively easy. Coaxing a shield around themselves or each other was something that Neville and Ginny had mastered more than a year ago. They spent three days hurling solid objects as well as harmless, but perceptible hexes at each other; usually, the colourful haze of their magic was strong enough to stop such attacks. On Sunday, Professor Varlerta even had them try to protect two moving magic targets at the same time. While Neville was shielding Roary and Varlerta, Ginny managed to land a good hit on Varlerta's forehead with a tennis ball. The teacher was not amused and told them they needed more practice before trying the same exercises with hexes instead of moving objects.

On Monday, Ambrose Curtis arrived. He gave them a lesson on building up Shields in the traditional way. Roary and Varlerta practised along Ginny and Neville. The two teachers knew how to build up the solid, glassy-looking shields which were the best protection traditional magic could offer; however, both admitted they were not particularly good at it.

"A true Shield is something a good student may attempt at NEWTs level of Defence Against the Dark Arts, but usually not earlier," Curtis told them. "You two have quite a lot of experience beyond what is normal for your age, but you won't learn it overnight."

"Did you do a Shield for your Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWTs, Professor Varlerta?" Ginny asked.

Professor Varlerta rapidly changed the subject and asked Curtis about his experiments with energy coming from the earth itself.

"I can't really tell you any more about the details than I already did, Var – Unspeakable matters, you know. Let's get going. To give you an idea, I'll conjure up a pretty good Shield for you and let you touch it."

The glassy dome Curtis created with his wand made Ginny think of that night more than a year ago when they had fought against the Death Eater Nott, who had held Professor Varlerta between his knees within such a Shield. It had been quite an effective device and might really help Harry in a fight – though whether it would be strong enough to protect him from Voldemort she did not know.

"Now, Conjuring up such a shield takes a lot of magical strength, much more than I expect you to have at your age," Curtis said, making Ginny think involuntarily of Varlerta's first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson last year. "Knowing what I do of your stone circle experiments, I think it possible that you may be able to do it after the night of a full moon spent filling up with stone circle energy. However, we may not depend on Voldemort attacking on the night after a full moon. – Of course, you two have a bit of experience of receiving strength from outer sources, especially from nature itself. This may enable you to activate certain powers which are in the grasp of only a select few."

Ginny was fascinated by the things Curtis was hinting at. It wasn't only that against Voldemort, they needed any bit of extra strength they could get. Rather, she knew she enjoyed the feeling of being magically empowered, and the more ways there were to reach that state, the better.

"What do we have to do to activate these powers?" she asked.

Curtis made a face. "See, the problem is that I may teach you certain things, but by law I am not entitled to explain them. This is a bit awkward, but I believe it can work, and it is all I can offer."

Ginny snorted. "The law! Now that Malfoy is Minister of Magic, the law is a farce. Laws are changed every day to persecute those who fight on our side. What do we care about the law?"

Curtis smiled indulgently. "This law is far older than Malfoy's presidency, and indeed, older than any of us. You may not respect the laws of our present government – and indeed, there are a good many reasons not to obey them. However, there are laws that go beyond that – the ancient laws of magic, and, even more importantly, the laws of humanity – the laws the Muggles call human rights. Even if your country is ruled by injustice, you can't just disregard them."

Ginny saw Varlerta raise an eyebrow at this. The teacher looked like she wanted to say something to Ambrose Curtis, but she held her tongue in check. If she wasn't mistaken, Roary was smirking.

"To get back to the matter at hand," Curtis said a bit hurriedly, "I think we should spend the next hour or so in meditation out here in the sun and concentrate on the powers that nature can give us. Then you can take out your musical instruments and see whether you can communicate with these powers."

He asked them to sit with their legs crossed and close their eyes. Both the two students and the two adults followed his bidding. Listening to the low, calm voice of Ambrose Curtis, they slowed their breathing and emptied their minds. Ginny had meditated a bit in Professor Varlerta's class, but somehow, Curtis was the better instructor – maybe because he seemed calmer himself. Under his guidance, Ginny felt her mind reach out to the flow of life in the grass and trees around her, in the worms and insects crawling through the dirt, in the birds flowing overhead. The sunshine warmed her limbs and mind; she felt its energy gather around her. To her, all this life was a mighty rhythm, like a million different heartbeats merging into one common pulse. Her own blood flowed in synchronicity to it; her heartbeat was perfectly in time. This was the true nature of magic, she felt. As long as she was in time, as long as she was one with the rhythm, she was in its power, and its power was in her.

Very softly and carefully, Ambrose Curtis' voice fetched her back into the sunlit grounds. Tentatively, she opened her eyes and saw the bright sky, the green grass as if for the first time. The colours had a vivacity that appeared to be almost pulsating; life around her seemed almost too vivid. Ginny filled her lengths with the sweet, balmy summer's air.

"This was really cool," she said a bit breathlessly. "Can we do that in every lesson?"

Curtis laughed. "It's rare to find teenagers so willing to sit still and meditate," he said appreciatively.

"I agree, though," Neville commented. "It's almost a bit like walking in the stone circle at full moon."

Varlerta grinned. "There you have it – my apprentices," she said proudly to Curtis. "I dare say this has to do with their training – with working music magic, with feeling magic flow through you in the stone circle and with relating to things through Coaxing. Though maybe, of course, they're just very mature for their age." She raised an eyebrow at Ginny and Neville as if to challenge them to object.

Ginny did not want to object. She felt far too relaxed and pleasantly warm for any kind of controversy. Her mind was filled with sweet, cheerful music in which only one plaintive note rang. She wanted Joolz to share all this. She wanted him to sit on the grass next to her while she felt the pulsation of life, and when she opened her eyes, she wanted to look in his and find them a mirror for her own bliss. Soon, she told herself. Soon Joolz would have caught up with them – after all, he was older than her and more advanced in other branches of magic – and then he would be a part of the group.

"Now that we are all well-relaxed and have connected to the magic that slumbers in the earth itself," Curtis said with a trace of humour in his voice that belied his slightly pompous words, "let's get some work done. To practise Conjuring up shields, let's start small. Let's start with models, or rather, let's start with mice. Varlerta, do you have your rodent collection ready?"

Varlerta sighed. "I did what you asked me to do, at any rate, and got a couple of mice from Professor McGonagall. Let me tell you she was not amused and wants them back unharmed and free from any kind of trauma."

"Oh, we'll jinx them only very subtly to test your model shields," Roary promised the two students half-heartedly.

"Be careful," Varlerta replied. "We can't trust the model shields yet, not with Minerva's mice. You know how particular she is about her Transformation material."

"Oh, bring them on," Neville said with laughter in his voice. "The worst thing we can do is turn them into teacups with the notorious teacup jinx."

Varlerta got up. "I'll fetch them for your lordships and ladyship," she announced with an ironic little bow. "And then we'll see whether or not you can do a proper shield for our material."

What came now where the things Ginny knew well from all sorts of lessons: Learn the words of a spell, practice the corresponding wrist flick, get a good mental image of what you want to achieve, have a go. After the better part of an hour, both Ginny and she were able to produce a small glassy dome around one of the squeaky rodents that was at least solid enough to resist the tap of a finger. Curtis gave them a number of tips, corrected their pronunciation and occasionally praised their progress.

Roary and Varlerta meanwhile practised on each other; Conjuring up their man-sized shields did not take them half as long. If Ginny wasn't mistaken, Varlerta had not been able to achieve this so quickly about two years ago; probably the witch had practised. Somehow the thought frustrated her: Even as an adult witch, even if she had achieved something special like Varlerta had with her audio magic research, she would have to keep on learning, would have to keep on practising to get better.

Finally, Curtis decreed that Ginny and Neville might try to hex each other's mice as well as attack the adults with jinxes to test the shields. The result was disillusioning: While Varlerta and Roary remained visibly free of jelly legs, both mice started wobbling as soon as the hex was spoken, as if the little protective shields had not been there at all.

Curtis laughed at the two students' obvious disconcertment. "Meditation or no meditation, you won't learn this on a single afternoon. Many people need years to achieve a decent shield. But I'm sure you two will learn fast. Just don't expect too much of yourself at the very beginning."

Ginny sighed and cast a spell on her mouse to restore it to health and keep it from vomiting. She had heard it a thousand times before: Learning magic took patience. You did not learn these things overnight. But, she wondered, what would happen if she did not learn fast? Was it possible that she'd fail to meet everyone's expectation, much worse, fail to protect Harry when it really mattered? _I just have to put all my energy into this,_ she decided.


	4. Snape

**3 ****–**** Snape**

The dungeon was a place of quiet and order. Peacefully boiling kettles over merrily roaring fires presented an almost convincing sound scape of comfort; Snape's prison had become a refuge. Upstairs, the Slytherin mansion had become home to frantic activity, but Snape, the traitor, the Death Eater who could not be trusted, was not included in it. While others disputed the defeat and speculated on the Dark Lord's next measures, Snape was busy brewing poisons and bizarre, forbidden potions. He saw himself as privileged.

Evnissyen spent less and less time in the dungeon. He was called to meetings and gatherings; he was expected to be at the Dark Lord's side, to do his bidding. Snape was never called anywhere, not even to be tortured. In a way, he had ceased existing, something it seemed he had always desired. But however much he cherished his peace, whenever Evnissyen willingly told him some news, he listened eagerly.

"It appears there was a spy among us posing as Pettigrew," Evnissyen informed him after a meeting. "You should know the bloke – he went to school with you and was one of the Dark Lord's most secret agents."

Snape lowered his head once in silent assent, never neglecting the roots he was chopping up with a knife.

"This person infiltrated Davis' group and made sure that You-Know-Who had this strange, mysterious secret weapon with which he got us," Evnissyen told him. These days, neither Hogwarts nor its headmaster were ever explicitly mentioned in the Slytherin mansion; they seemed to bring bad luck. However, adapting the common euphemism for the Dark Lord for the chief enemy at Hogwarts seemed Evnissyen's personal idea of a joke; no one else used it. Or did they? Snape wasn't sure; he hadn't dined upstairs with the other Death Eaters for a while, but preferred eating whatever was brought to him down in the dungeon.

"Pettigrew was captured by the enemy, wasn't he?" Snape said, only moderately interested.

"It certainly seems so," Evnissyen replied. "There was no news of him for months."

"Maybe they made him talk," Snape suggested. "However, if I remember correctly, You-Know-Who doesn't resort to torture." While not mentioning Dumbledore's name, he saw the image of the old headmaster all the clearer before his inner eye – an ancient, benevolent wizard in whose blue eyes burned a fire that could be both heart-warming and devouring. For an eerie moment, he didn't know where he was, or why he should call Dumbledore the enemy. Hadn't he once been loyal to him? Confused, he touched the small bulk on his chest, a clay amulet hanging from a leather chord beneath his robes, as if it could help him make sense of the world.

"As far as I understood the Dark Lord, he made sure Pettigrew will be rather tongue-tied with the enemy," Evnissyen replied, a merciless gleam in his eyes.

In his present confused state, Snape took his words literally for a moment; he pictured Peter Pettigrew, small and insignificant, his tongue rolled back in his mouth, tied to his palate with strings coming from nowhere. No, that was silly. He had to get a grip on himself.

"The biggest problem is that we have lost a considerable amount of men-power, and, worse, the Dark Lord is losing his followers' trust. He needs a couple of smart, reliable people to turn matters in his favour, people who haven't just lost a son, people he can trust. What he needs are people who do field work among Muggles and wizards for him as well as people who guard this stronghold when others are working for him outside. Most of all, of course, he needs a new spy."

"Well, he will never trust me again, that much I know," Snape answered. "Also, I am wanted for a misdemeanour or two, so going back to the other side would be a problem, even if the Dark Lord trusted me."

"I know," Evnissyen replied. "Neither can I ever go back there. Officially, I am dead, and I admit I rather like it that way. I might do a couple of hit wizard jobs, though. Maybe I can take you with me; the Dark Lord knows I'll keep an eye on you. In the meantime, you have a much-needed job to do down here in the dungeon – and if you get bored, you could always do guard duty for the Dark Lord and maybe win back a part of his favour. After all, you still have a princess to receive from his hands, don't you?"

Right, he had come here to win the Dark Lord's daughter – or hadn't he? Again, he was confused. "You think he will let me do anything outside this dungeon?" Snape asked Evnissyen.

"You won't know if you don't ask," Evnissyen argued reasonably. "Of course, you may win only resentment. On the other hand, right now the Dark Lord needs every wand he can get. It might be a good time to advance in our rows again."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Snape heard himself ask. Sure, Evnissyen was his friend – if he was anybody's friend. However, trusting the man who was to blame for the torture and death of his own family would have been a folly.

"You know I like to see things moving," Evnissyen replied with an almost naïve smile. "I just don't like stagnation. For my taste, you have been in one place for too long."

"It is a peaceful place," Snape argued. "I like it." Something in the back of his mind told him he hadn't come here to brew potions and poisons; he had come here to achieve something. If he only knew what that something could be!

"I'll tell the Dark Lord you want a word with him," Evnissyen replied, disregarding Snape's objection. He turned on his heels and left Snape to chopping his roots.

Snape bowed his head to the ground, feeling both silly and apprehensive. Once more, he had come to the chamber of heavy draperies made of green velvet, of marble floors and precious ornaments to kneel before the gilded throne of the Dark Lord. Would he be tortured again, just out of habit?

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You may speak," the Dark Lord hissed. "If you waste my time with any trivialities, you will regret it."

Apparently it was not yet decided whether or not he would be tortured today. He had a chance yet to remain unscathed.

"It is, I suppose, a triviality, my Lord, and I regret wasting any of your precious time," Snape replied deferentially. "Yet I cannot rest before offering you my services – more of my services than you already have, that is. I know and accept that I am a despicable traitor whom you cannot wholly trust. However, if there was anything I could do, anything more than the humble services that am more than happy to perform for you, I wish you would let me know."

"Oh, you are not content with the dungeon any more?" the Dark Lord sneered dangerously, his red eyes flashing. Obediently, the six Death Eaters waiting on him chuckled at their Lord's superior humour – and at Snape's inferiority. Snape, however, knew that their views counted nothing. It was the Dark Lord himself he had to convince.

"In contrary, I am more than happy and content with my work, and I do not wish to shirk my duty. I only came to remind you, my lord, that I am far from overburdened, and if you saw me fit to serve you in more than one way in times of need, it would make me happy. Of course, the decision rests with you, my lord. As a known traitor, I accept that my Lord cannot wholly trust me, however much I strive to win back the trust I most foolishly destroyed many years ago."

"You are indeed a worthless traitor who does not deserve to be called a Death Eater," the Dark Lord spat. Yet somehow, he sounded undecided. Even the attending Death Eaters seemed to notice this; at first they vigorously murmured their assent, but one by one they stopped short.

"I know I am," Snape confirmed the Dark Lord's accusation, "and I most fiercely regret that I cannot offer you the services of a worthier follower, but only my own, which are forever soiled. If, however, you feel you can send me on duty under the eyes of a trusted Death Eater, I would be more than happy to do your bidding even outside the walls of this mansion." After all, he reasoned with himself, he already had – he had been sent on a spying mission with Evnissyen. Maybe he would be sent out again? It would be nice to step outside and see the sky again, he suddenly realised, and he was surprised at his own feelings.

The Dark Lord did not reply for a while; he seemed to be considering. Finally, he replied: "As Severus Snape, the traitor, you are indeed of no further use to me."

Snape bowed his head. Would he be killed now? "I apologize for the unforgivable act that rendered me useless to your service, my Lord."

"As Severus Snape, you are of no use to me," the Dark Lord repeated. "If you truly want to serve me, you will have to give up your name, your past and your memory. You will become one of my nameless fighters." There was a short wave of surprised murmur from the attending Death Eaters which gave way to absolute silence. They seemed to recede into the darkness as if in fear, leaving Snape alone before the throne to react to this rather unexpected revelation.

His name, his past and his memory? At first, it sounded like a lot to give up. Then again, what was his name to him? The name of his father who had hated him – and a first name that somehow symbolised the loneliness of his existence? Oh yes, his existence – it seemed dreary and unpleasant – as far as he could remember it. He knew that in rare flashes, some kind of past, even a half-forgotten loyalty, formed itself in his mind – but it was fleeting and confusing. Maybe the Dark Lord did not ask all that much for the chance to serve him, after all.

"Do with me as you please, my Lord – I am ready to serve you in any form," Snape replied.

"You do not understand," the Dark Lord snarled impatiently. "Like true loyalty, the sacrifice of one's name and past can only be given out of free will. I could put you under an Imperious curse – but curses can be broken. If you give up your memory to me, it is mine to peruse, and mine to give back as a reward if you earn it. Such a connection cannot be forced upon anyone even with the strongest curse."

Snape felt as if he was experiencing a dejá vu: Hadn't he given up his memory, his true self, once before? Suddenly he felt acutely that a part of his mind was missing, and that he did not want the Dark Lord to know, or to peruse that part at will. It was exclusively Snape's precisely because he had given it up. Would the Dark Lord be able to get access to these memories, too? He sensed a strange danger.

"Are you ready to become a nameless fighter?" The Dark Lord's voice was powerful like a gale now. Obeying him seemed so easy.

"Yes, my Lord," Snape heard himself reply. He was indeed ready.

"Then ready yourself for the cleansing ceremony."

With a flick of a white hand, Snape was dismissed.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

When Snape arrived in his dungeon, someone had already brought him a robe of plain, undyed material complete with undergarments of the same kind. Snape understood this as a command to change for the ceremony, whatever it might be. Evnissyen was nowhere in sight, so he decided he had enough privacy to obey promptly. While taking off his slightly potion-stained robes, his fingers suddenly touched the clay object hanging from his neck with a leather cord – an ocarina, a little bulging clay flute. He weighed it in his hand for a moment. There was something to this object, something he had forgotten but believed to be important. Didn't he play this flute every now and then to some magical purpose? He wasn't sure. The best would probably be to surrender it to the Dark Lord as a sign of his absolute loyalty. However, he felt reluctant to do so. Should he keep it? But of what use could it be to a nameless fighter without a past or even a name?

Snape changed into the robes given to him for the ceremony, still undecided about what he should do with his strange possession. When he heard a knock on the door, he hastily hid it in a jar of frogeyes. Would he find it there? Would he even remember he had hidden it? Well, there was no time now. He opened the door for them to show them he was ready.

Or was he? The moment he saw the three blank-faced wizards, uniformly dressed in robes made of the same undyed material as his, he realised what he was letting them do to him. He cast a furtive glance behind to the now deserted potions dungeon, sure it was the last glance of his sanctuary he was granted, regretting the fact that he could not exchange even a few words of parting with Evnyssien. Sure, he might return here to brew further supplies for the Dark Lord, but would he still be himself then? He had agreed to relinquish his memories, his identity, even his name. It was time to say goodbye to himself, he thought as the followed his unknown guards along the corridors. Again, the icy paws of a dejá-vu toyed with his brain. Well, never mind. If he had come to give himself up, he might as well do it for good. It wasn't as if he had ever been a particularly memorable character.

Snape tried to concentrate on telling his guards apart, even noting which of them walked first and which of them held the key to all the doors, but he failed. Their clothes, their colourless, short-cropped hair, even their faces looked uniform if not altogether featureless. He could not remember having ever seen them before in the mansion, but maybe he had just forgotten about them. There was nothing about them to remember or recognize any longer. On the other hand, maybe his mind had already accepted it would be cleansed of memory and personality and saw little point in processing any kind of information it was destined to forget any minute now anyway. Therefore, Snape accepted that the three wizards were a group not made of individuals, a group into which he would blend; soon there would be no Severus Snape any more.

The three stopped in front of the door, unlocked it and pushed him through into a large room empty save for two plain stools and a large wooden tub. The floor was plain concrete, the walls stripped to their cracked plaster. One of the guards took off Snape's robes and put them on one of the stools. Another one pressed his shoulder and wordlessly guided him to the other stool, where the three of them shaved off all the hair on Snape's head and body, guiding him first to sit, then to stand. All in all, they had rather little to shave beneath the once distinguished eyebrows, Snape mused. After mere seconds, he was as bare as a plucked chicken. The thought did not appeal to him, but as he wasn't asked, he did not comment. Neither did he object to being scrubbed in cold water and to being exposed to the Dark Lord who now entered.

"Death Eater," the Dark Lord addressed him haughtily, "you have up to today been known among us as Severus Snape, the traitor. Do you wish to relinquish your name and past and become one of the nameless fighters?"

Standing naked and hairless before the Dark Lord, Snape could not help thinking that this was a bit of a rhetorical question.

"I do," he replied.

"Do you willingly give up your memories in my service to be rewarded or punished with knowledge of your self only at my will?" the Dark Lord asked.

"I do," Snape replied, watching Lord Voldemort raise his wand and point it towards his temple. All of a sudden, he vividly remembered being eighteen, just out of school, and receiving his Dark Mark from the Dark Lord. He could clearly remember the colours, the pain, the smell of his own burnt skin. It was not a happy memory, but suddenly he wanted to hold on to it with all his might. What was wrong with remembering his life? Something within him wanted to scream, to fight, to pick up the black hair shaved from his head and cradle this lost bit of his self in his last moments of consciousness. Yes, indeed, he had been here before. He had meant to jump off a high tower for reasons that escaped him entirely, and this was only the last step towards the edge. Re-establishing his self-control, he commanded his body and mind to comply while the Dark Lord took away his life.

"Severus Snape, you shall never again be known by this name," the Dark Lord proclaimed. "From now on, you will be nothing more than one of my nameless fighters. You will do as I wish, think what I permit you to think and remember what I permit you to remember. Goodbye for good, Severus Snape."

There was an orange light shooting into his eyes and blinding him, but there was no pain. There was only this sudden rush of energy, this flood of images, of sounds and smells, of knowledge. He was not sure whether the stream was entering or leaving his mind. Then he wasn't sure whether he still had a mind. Then he was not sure whether he was a he, or what he might be instead.

"I am at your command, ready to serve you, my Lord," said the nameless fighter.


	5. Aisha

**4 – Aisha**

In amazement, Aisha watched the picture on her passport change appearance. Sure, if he could change her face with magic, he could get a photograph to mirror her new face with a wave of his wand; it was only logical, but she still found it hard to get used to the way Romulus Lupin used magic for all the special needs of a secret mission.

Maybe she shouldn't have come with him; Varlerta and Roary had been against it, claiming she was safer within the walls of the castle. Romulus, on the other hand, had told her it was safe; obviously, he wanted her to come with him. Aisha saw it as a good sign. Once upon a time – not that long ago, in fact, but removed into ancient history by the things that had happened in the meantime – he had asked her to forgive his former lies if he returned successfully – and alive – from his spying mission. While he was gone, she had feared for him. Waiting, fearing for his life, had made forgiving all the easier. She wanted him back. She wanted him as her lover. She had expected him to claim her after his return, but so far he hadn't.

First, there had been the attack to fear, the fervent preparations to Counter the deadly curse of the enemy; then there had been the death of all these children. It had affected everybody, but Romulus Lupin had fallen into something she would have called a clinical depression. He had known many of the dead students, especially the American ones; he had taught them the use of Dark Arts himself. Now it seemed he was overwhelmed by guilt – and disinterested in love. Sure, he smiled at her when he saw her, he even talked to her, but it was as if his spirit was diminished.

When telling her that he had been asked to arrange the safe transfer of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black back to Hogwarts, Romulus had seemed reanimated, revived by the chance of having something to do. The contrast was striking: Suddenly he was not only smiling, even joking again, but also visibly interested in her coming along. She could not miss this chance. She'd agreed to accompanying him to New York City, had packed a few belongings and her passport – and here she was, sitting in a bathroom at JFK airport, watching her photograph change. She left the cubicle to look into a mirror, and, sure, his face looked like her passport picture now. Her hair, her clothes and even her backpack had also changed colour and shape. Romulus was in the men's bathroom next door, doing the same with his own face, passport and clothing. They had travelled on the plane under false names and with false faces, and now that they had checked out and claimed their luggage, Romulus had changed their appearance again to make them harder to trace.

Aisha stared at the strange physique in the mirror. She was looking exquisitely pretty and definitely Caucasian – mid-length shiny blond hair, a rosy complexion, a small button nose, lips that looked as if modelled onto a plaster mannequin. Was that the way Romulus wanted her to look? Would he prefer this too-perfect look of his own creation to her actual face? She stuck out her tongue to the mirror and pulled the face into a few absurd, cross-eyed grimaces. What a ridiculously tiny nose. That wasn't her. If Romulus wanted something like that, he'd have to go for another favourite Muggle. She rinsed her hands and left the facility.

Romulus was waiting outside. He'd made himself a couple of years younger, also blond, but definitely on the chubby side. She looked him over quickly; then she whispered in his ear:  
"I prefer your normal looks."

He nodded. "I prefer yours," he whispered back. She smiled at the strange face, hoping he was telling the truth.

Together, they left the building. Romulus hailed a taxi to take into town. He seemed to have plenty of money. When he'd bought the plane tickets, she had asked him whether he could make money by magic, whether he could perhaps simply Transfigure objects into money. It wasn't possible, he'd replied: Money was made out of gold and silver simply because these precious metals resisted Transfiguration; only the best Alchemists in the world stood a chance of making gold. As for Muggle coins and money bills, they were always made in cooperation or Muggles and wizards who ensured that they could be forged neither with nor without magic. "I made my money by being a teacher – and by being a spy," he'd told her quietly. She could not help it, even if she told herself she was being a mindless Bond-Girl: She found this highly attractive somehow, even sexy. But then again, she found quite a few things sexy about him, especially now when he wasn't depressed, when he was moving about in the Big Apple as if it was his home turf. He was, after all, an American, something Aisha found refreshing somehow.

The taxi took them to a backstreet in Little Ukraine. Romulus paid the fare and guided Aisha to a small café on the corner.

"You'd better wait here," he told her. "Have a borshtsh or something – just make sure you pay for it straight away, because we may have to leave in a hurry. Find a place facing the door so I can wave you out if necessary. If you don't hear from me in two hours' time, take the plane back to Britain."

Aisha nodded, feeling slight discomfort. He'd told her that in the case of an emergency, she was to leave on her own immediately. Of course, she knew it was only sensible. If he couldn't defend himself against some unknown enemy, there was nothing she could do to help him. Nevertheless, just when he had disappeared from the sight of the café's shop window, she wondered what it would be like to just leave – perhaps never to see him again, perhaps never even to know what had happened to him.

"He'll be alright, you stupid Bond-Girl," she told herself. "He's a professional spy." Obediently, she ordered a bowl of borshtsh, as if the slightest derivation from his suggestion might cause the operation to go amiss. She paid for it when it came, distressing the waitress with the strong Russian accent not a little by her insistence. Then she slowly spooned up the red soup, all the while watching the road. When would he return? "He'll be alright," she told herself."

And he was – or at least, he safely returned to her about half an hour later. She was overjoyed to see him – until she saw the look on his face. He looked far from happy, she realised as he entered the café and slumped down on the chair next to hers. He was on his own, she realised, but by no means in a hurry or on the run.

"What happened?" she asked.

"The place is empty," he replied curtly. "Cleaned out. No Magical Society, no prisoners. The tenants of the apartment have no clue who lived there before them. They moved in last month."

"So you have no idea what happened to Sirius and Lupin," Aisha concluded.

"Nope." There was the hint of a sarcastic smile on his lips. "No idea."

"What now?" Aisha asked, toying with the spoon in her empty bowl.

"I'll have to renew my contacts, talk to a couple of people," Romulus replied quietly. "I have been out of touch for a couple of months. My contacts from the Magical Society must think that I'm either dead, taken by the enemy, or have gone over to the other side. I have to convince them I was taken and have escaped rather than having changed sides."

Aisha was bewildered for a moment. _The other side_,_ the enemy_ – that was Dumbledore, that was Hogwarts, that was Roary, Varlerta and her. She was the enemy, and Romulus had gone over to her – was that it? She found dealing with him confusing. Getting close to him seemed so difficult somehow, as if their feelings for each other were almost too fragile to be put to a test. Given the fact that she had already slept with him, this tentative, tedious process of getting close, of understanding each other, seemed a bit out of place. Then again, she hadn't slept with him. She'd gotten into the bed of a man she took to be Remus Lupin, and becoming the lover of this strange, slightly mysterious spy might be a different matter altogether.

"Do you know how to find your contacts?" she asked at last, feeling obliged to keep the conversation going.

"I suppose so," he replied vaguely. "However, you can't come with me. The Magical Society is not like the Death Eaters – they rarely commit violent acts, and never pointless ones. However, they are not exactly pro-Muggle. If they find out I've brought you with me, they will hardly trust me."

"I suppose I could go and see some friends here in New York," Aisha replied. Her best friends were in distant Scotland, but there were still a few acquaintances she could pay a little visit. After all, New York had been her hometown for many years.

"I'd prefer you to stay anonymously in a Muggle hotel. It would be better if we kept up your altered outward appearance and did not leave your room. I'd cast a couple of protective spells. This way, you will endanger yourself and our operation the least."

Aisha did not like to hear this. Now she was not only a Bond-Girl, but a danger to herself and others, someone who had to be locked in. "I shouldn't have come," she said quietly. "I feel utterly useless, and I hate to be in your way."

He took her hand. "I shouldn't have taken you here, silly me," he confirmed, meeting her eyes. "I'm only in danger and confining you to a hotel room. Still, I'm very glad you're here with me."

Aisha's heart beat quite loudly. It seemed like the right moment to kiss, but with the table and the empty borshtsh bowl between them, kissing would have been quite awkward, and the moment passed.

They left before the waitress could take any order from Romulus. The subway took them to a large, anonymous chain hotel. Aisha expected it to be booked out, but Romulus just booked two rooms under their false names – whether or not there was any bribe involved Aisha did not know. They went upstairs and found their clean, stylish, impersonal hotel rooms with a whirlpool, a sofa, a mini-bar and pay-tv – rather fancy in Aisha's eyes.

"I'll head back into town straight away," Romulus told her. "It would be best if you left your room as little as possible. If you need anything, call room service. I'll be in touch as soon as I can. Have you still got your ticket and that credit card?"

"Is it that dangerous?" Aisha retorted.

Romulus shook his head. "I shouldn't think so," he replied. "I just want to make sure you're not stranded here in this hotel." He smiled, winked at her and left.

Aisha threw herself on the bed. Here she was in a fancy hotel room, alone with a whirlpool, a TV and a strange prettiness that was as borrowed as her name, waiting for him once more. If he didn't come back, she'd be stranded nevertheless.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Romulus returned with the suggestion that they should change their appearance once more and go out to eat in a place of Aisha's choice. "That's the good thing about these big, anonymous hotels – they don't notice if you come down the stairs with a face they've never seen before – they see hundreds of new faces each day."

"What did you find out?" Aisha asked, slapping her hand on the bed, suggesting he should sit down next to her. Her soaps hadn't held their old fascination for her – she had missed months of plot, and now they seemed more shallow and trivial than ever. Even old movies hadn't cut it – and neither would any fancy restaurant. She wanted closeness to Romulus and a solution to the problem they had come to solve, not luxuries.

Romulus sat with a soft groan. Like her, he was probably slightly jetlagged. In England, it was about three in the morning now, Aisha remembered.

"It seems the Magical Society split into two halves," Romulus told her. "My contacts are among those who remained with the old group, but the people who guarded my prisoners appear to have gone over to the newly founded American Death Eaters United. Unlike the old Magical Society, this group does not only agree with certain ideas of the British Death Eaters, such as wizard supremacy over Muggles, but fully and openly supports You-Know-Who. This might mean they sent their prisoners to You-Know-Who – a worst-case scenario, as you can imagine. If we're lucky, they still keep their prisoners in New York, though – maybe as a goody to give to You-Know-Who in case he honours them with a visit."

"We've got to find them tonight, then," Aisha replied. "We've got no time to lose. No time to go out to eat either."

Romulus made a calming movement with his hand. "Yes, we do," he objected. "I've sent out word with my contacts. Tomorrow we'll know more."

"Maybe they are just being sent to You-Know-Who right now," Aisha retorted. "Maybe there's something we can do to prevent it. Once You-Know-Who has them in his keep, it will be really difficult to free them, won't it?"

"It will," Romulus confirmed, "but we will have to deal with this problem when it occurs. Right now, our task is to find out whether they are still in town – _after_ we have eaten, that is. What kind of face do you want to wear today?"

"My own," Aisha replied with slight sullenness.

"No way," Romulus replied. "Second best?"

"P J Harvey," Aisha replied stubbornly.

Romulus waved his wand. Without a word, Aisha went to the bathroom to look into the mirror. She did indeed bear a certain likeliness to the singer and guitar player, even though her new clothes were less conspicuous than P J Harvey's usual attire for promotional shots. With a shrug, she returned to him, only to find him a striking Latino reminding her of Antonio Banderas.

"Ready to go out?" he asked.

"I suppose," Aisha replied, once more thinking she shouldn't have come along.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

She named her favourite sushi place, certainly not expensive for sushi, but still something she had been rarely able to afford when she was still living in New York City. It had a sushi carousel and shiny chrome bar stools. Over pickled ginger and wasabi, the strange Latino flirted heavily with her, catching plates from the carousel, feeding her with his chopsticks. She even forgot for a moment that the two prisoners were in danger, one of them Romulus' twin brother and a nice, attractive man, the other one her best friend's lover. Occasionally, however, she thought of them. Then she wondered how Romulus could sit there, laughing, flirting, playfully using his fake appearance to his best advantage.

"Aren't you afraid for them?" she asked him. "How can you be in such a good mood?"

Romulus smiled slightly ruefully. "I'm afraid, and not only for them," he replied. "We're living in dangerous times, and we're in a dangerous place at the moment. I could be dead tomorrow – and so could you, even though I'm trying to protect you as well as I can. If I didn't enjoy tonight with you, it would be a shame."

"You think you will have to do something dangerous tomorrow?" Aisha inquired.

Romulus hesitated. Finally, he simply said: "Yes."

Aisha let her chopsticks rest on her plate, the Inari sushi forgotten. "You're not talking about fighting or anything, are you?"

"I sure hope it won't come to that," Romulus replied, not meeting her eyes.

"But you're on your own, and the prisoners are probably guarded by a number of people," Aisha objected.

Romulus shrugged. "If I have to, I will know where to find a few people to help me," he retorted. "Also, there are plenty of rented wands to be had around here." He put a hand on hers. "Don't worry – I'm quite fond of my life and won't take unnecessary risks. Also, there is a good possibility the problem can be solved with a little cash infusion."

"You must be filthily rich," was Aisha's unfiltered comment.

He laughed. "My uncle left me a buck or two, and I've been on two salaries for years – one for being a teacher at one of the most prestigious schools in the East, and one for my spy work. Add a couple of risk bonuses and a few well-played hands in the dirty game of politics, and you can't help having a few savings."

"What are you going to do with all that money?" Aisha asked.

"I've no clue," Romulus replied with a grin. "I kept telling myself I'd be self-employed one day, but I never really knew in which profession. Trouble was, I was already working in my dream job, so I had little reason for trying something else."

"What do you like so much about being a spy?" Aisha asked. It sounded like a trivial question, but to her, it seemed to be one of the chief clues to his personality.

He thought only for a moment. "Adventure. Risk. Power. Money. Pretty women." There was a hint of a challenge in his voice; his Banderas eyebrows arched provokingly. "Say, have you tried the salmon?"

"Salmon is bad for the environment. I'll stick with the veggie stuff," Aisha replied automatically. She took her inari sushi between her chopsticks and had a bite.

"Say, do you think me a terrible macho?" Romulus asked as if he could read her thoughts.

"Entirely," Aisha replied, swallowing hurriedly. "And I find it confirmed that you are a spy to boost your ego. It's like a pair of mental balls to you."

He laughed, bent forwards and kissed her on her nose. "You know what I dislike about P J Harvey?" he asked.

"No," she replied, totally perplexed.

"Her nose is too small," he told her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lying in her bed at night, waiting to fall asleep, Aisha found her thoughts could not help wander to the wizard lying in the room next to her. He'd kissed her nose. He'd been flirting with her. Forgotten seemed the days of depression, the days when he appeared to have forgotten his romantic interest in her. Aisha longed to get up, to knock at his door, to slip under his cover. She imagined his body under her hands, his warm and smooth skin. How would he react if she just went to him? Would he think her cheap? Would he even refuse her? Or was he maybe waiting for her on his side of the separating wall as she was waiting for him to come to her?

Suddenly, she found both of her bare feet on the carpet. Her body was making up her mind for her. If she didn't watch it, she'd be knocking on his door before she had even properly decided whether or not this was the right course of action. This would not do. She swung her feet back into bed and tried to find a comfortable position that would help her relax.

Then she heard footsteps on the hall, and her heartbeat flared up as if fired by gasoline. Was that Romulus coming to her? No, it was only someone passing her room. Disappointed, Aisha tried to fight down the adrenaline in her body.

It took her a long time to fall asleep that night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After an early breakfast with Romulus, another day of waiting began for Aisha. By noon, she could not stand it any longer. She took out her address book and called a half-forgotten New York City phone number.

"Piercing Studio _Age of Bondage_, what can I do for you?"

The voice sounded unfamiliar. What should she do now? Should she give her name? Romulus wanted her to remain anonymous. However, it was already out. "Hi, my name is Aisha. I'm looking for René(e). Is she still working at the Studio?"

"René(e)? Yes, she's –"A short pause, probably a look around. "Yeah, hold on, I'll put you through."

After a short blast of heavily distorted music, René(e) herself came to the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi René(e), this is Aisha – you remember, the drummer?"

"Sure I remember you," the drummer of _Lucullus and the Death Eaters_ replied without hesitation. "Nice to hear from you. Are you back in town?"

"Sort of. I'm here with a friend, and I admit we're in a bit of a fix. A _wizard_ fix, that is."

René(e) whistled through her teeth. "A fix, I see. And now you're looking for someone to help you."

Aisha felt quite stupid. She shouldn't have called. "I'm not sure – maybe I only want advice, or at least someone for a chat. This friend of mine, he's convinced someone will Muggle-nap me the minute I set a foot outside this hotel room, and I'm going stir-crazy."

"I finish at five today," René(e) told Aisha. "Do you want to come over, have a cup of tea?"

"I'd love to," Aisha replied. "There's only one little thing."

"Which is?"

"Well, my friend changed my appearance, and now I look like a plastic and platinum doll. Don't be surprised when you don't recognize me at all."

"Alright." René did not sound totally convinced, but neither did she seem to change her mind about seeing Aisha. "Five thirty at the bagels shop around the corner from the _Basilisk_?"

"Five thirty it is." The location wasn't quite what Aisha would have chosen herself – after her unpleasant meeting with hitwizards in the Basilisk Bar, she didn't feel very comfortable there anymore. However, she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by Romulus' attitude. She'd been fine by herself in all sorts of areas of New York City, among all sorts of witches and wizards, and besides that one event, she had never felt seriously threatened anywhere. She could be glad René(e) had agreed on meeting her at all, Aisha told herself, so she didn't argue about the location.

Aisha watched some meaningless soaps for the rest of the afternoon. Before she left, she wrote Romulus a note stating she had gone for a walk and would probably be back around seven thirty. He would worry anyway, so she was hoping to be back before he came. Then she left the room and hotel unhindered. She took the subway into East Village and got to the bagels shop shortly before René(e) arrived. The drag king was dressed in a sleek red and white leather jacket; her James Dean cut signalled fifties macho pride.

"Aish, buddy, nice to see you, even if you don't look like yourself at all." René(e), who had always been good at stating the obvious, slipped on the bench upholstered with artificial red leather. Somehow she looked as if designed for her surroundings.

"What can I get you?" Aisha asked, suddenly quite shy. René(e) was the kindest and least bizarre member of _Lucullus and the Death Eaters_, but not wholly unintimidating.

"Tuna on rye, never mind the dolphins, I love eating baby dolphins." René(e) grinned. Obediently, Aisha ordered for the two of them. For herself she chose default cream cheese, only half aware of what she was ordering. Her mind was elsewhere.

"So how can I help you in this big, bad wizard world, babe?" René(e) asked with her mouth full.

Aisha swallowed. The food seemed dry as paper in her mouth, although it wasn't the bagel's fault, the bagel was fine.

"Politics," she replied strangely hoarsely. "Magical Society and the like. Why they split up."

René(e) made a face as if wanting to emit a whistle, but obviously thought better of it in view of the food in her mouth. She swallowed, too, took a sip of her coke and retorted:  
"My, you're not asking for trivia. Little Muggle girl and the pile of wizard shit. Are you sure you want to know?"

"I want to know about the recent development," Aisha explained. "Who's on which side, who is working with who."

"What in particular could you want from these people?" René(e)'s eyes narrowed.

Aisha did her best in assuming a firm, self-assured facial expression, suppressing all thoughts of how silly that would look on her sweet baby-doll face.

"On whose side are you, René(e)? The band?"

"On our own," René(e) replied firmly. "Not with anybody. Against a few people, that's for sure, but not with anybody."

"What about Muggles? Do you hate Muggles?" Aisha had to know.

"Not particularly." René(e) swallowed another bagel bite before elaborating: "I don't hate you, kid, and I hardly ever hate Muggles once I meet them. I hate their wars and politics, I hate pollution –"

Aisha found it too hard not to stare at René(e)'s coke can and tuna bagel.

"Okay, okay, babe," René(e) replied, getting the message anyway, "you're right. Wizards are slime. They are blaming the Muggles for the badness of the world without doing a thing against it. You see, most of us don't hate Muggles, we just pretend to. It's the same with the Magical Society – the old ones, that it. They bark, but they hardly ever bite. They talk about claiming world dominion, but they are usually too good-natured, if not too lazy, to shed Muggle blood. Give 'em a beer, and they remain peaceful. Now, the new ones, the ones have are split away – that's another matter altogether. They get into run-ins with their former buddies, and some of those street and club fights have been pretty vicious. These new ones, they like to see people die or suffer, some say."

"What do _they_ want?" Aisha urged her on, whetting her lips with her water.

"They support some British upstart who's got a mighty chip on his shoulder – so mighty, in fact, that nobody dares even mentioning his name," René(e) said.

"Voldemort?" Aisha whispered.

"Holy shnirk," René(e) replied, "how do you know that name? Listen, kid, I hope you're not involved in their affairs. They're pretty nasty when it comes to Muggles."

"They've taken friends of mine prisoner," Aisha told her, throwing carefulness into the wind.

"And now you want to regain them yourself." René(e)'s voice was heavy with irony. "Nice going, kid. Little Aisha Riq is up against the big, bad hitwizards. Listen, if I were you, I'd make sure I'd runs as far as I could. Never mind freeing your prisoners. They'll be sent to that unnamed British jerk straight away, and don't think you could stop them without losing your own life."

"I'm not on my own," Aisha objected. René(e) looked sceptical.

"I'm only trying to look around a bit, see if I find someone who can tell me more," Aisha asked. "Do you have any idea where they might keep the prisoners?"

René(e) scratched her chin as if encouraging a stubble to grow there. "You know they might be everywhere in this whole city, in this country, brought out of the country – there is no whatsoever telling," she replied.

"But you hear things," Aisha insisted. "You hear people talk at the _Basilisk_ or wherever. "Could you please tell me if you hear something? Maybe tell me the names of people I can ask? Please, help me." She tried her best pleading eyes, hoping they would work in her baby-doll face as well. René(e) only laughed.

"Alright, babe – you're really irresistible when you look like that, did anybody ever tell you? Anyway, I'll look around. As for a place to look – well, take your big bad wizard protector to the _Basilisk_, the_ Iron Wand_ or the _Demdyke's_. Just be careful – there's a lot of bad, bad witches and wizards about, eager to serve you for breakfast. These newly formed _Death Eaters_ are nothing like the story about Britain we used to hear – highwayman romanticism, you name it. No, those guys here hurt and kill. Look out for hitwizards, too – maybe your friend isn't injustly paranoid. And there's vampires and hags now – I even heard rumours of a werewolf on the loose. No, our Big Apple isn't the place it used to be. Nothing stays the same, you know." She sighed.

Aisha felt a shiver run down her spine. Thanking René(e) profusely for her semi-promise to look around a bit, Aisha paid for the food and drinks with some of the money Romulus had given her. Then she took the subway back to the hotel.

Aisha was glad to be home before Romulus, dreading to have to explain her absence. Still, she would have to do some explaining. There was something she had to tell him, and he would want to know where her knowledge came from.


End file.
